


that shines from you

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Inspired by Elton John, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:20:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25274554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: (Here’s the thing: All car cassettes turn into Queen overnight, yes, but did you know that all classical records spun on lonely, anxious rainy nights eventually turn into Elton John albums?)It's a perfectly lovely evening after the World Didn't End and Aziraphale is fine.Really. He's fine.(Or: In which the author cannot stop listening to Elton John and was in a mood.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 65





	that shines from you

_You could never know what it’s like  
Your blood, like winter, freezes just like ice_

It’s a perfectly lovely evening. 

(It never matters. Most evenings are perfectly lovely, when you get right down to it.)

“It’s a perfectly lovely evening,” Aziraphale even says out loud to himself. Yes, marvelous, splendid, wonderful, above reproach. That’s what this evening is.

The world remains. They have saved it, which should make the night all the sweeter. The world remains, the bookshop remains, Crowley’s Bentley remains. 

Best of all, Crowley remains. 

Crowley’s asleep now, Aziraphale remembers with an ache that he quickly endeavors to shake away. It’s nothing, after all. Nothing personal. It’s just what Crowley does on occasion. And what could be more exhausting than saving the entire world and all the creatures within it? They’ve both earned the rest, really. Crowley his sleep and Aziraphale his books and his baking. 

It really is a perfectly lovely evening. 

Aziraphale does everything right. (Is he capable of anything else, after all?) He slips his overcoat off of his shoulders and hangs it dutifully on the coat rack by the door. He fixes himself the miraculously perfect mug of hot cocoa, balmy weather outside be… well, you know. He takes his time selecting the perfectly lovely soundtrack for the perfectly lovely evening ahead of him, biting down gently on his lower lip and fiddling with the collection of records.

Debussy, he decides at last. 

Perfect.

It begins to rain outside, but it’s that perfect sort of steady drizzle which just makes books and hot cocoa all the better. And the bookshop is perfectly warm and cozy, after all, filled to bursting with every comfort for which Aziraphale has ever wanted over the course of his long lifetime. The angel peruses his lovingly, painstakingly curated shelves for as long as it takes. 

Shelley, he decides at last, removing the old, gray-green tome from its spot and leaning forward to blow the patina of dust off its cover.

Perfecter still.

It is a comfortable, rainy evening in his comfortable, dry bookshop and Aziraphale is laden with the promises of music, cocoa, and the invention of modern horror. He steals away to the back room, settles himself into a squashy armchair, even pulls a soft, old quilt over his lap. He sips the cocoa, letting the warmth wash over his bones and feathers.

Perfectest.

_And there’s a cold, lonely light that shines from you  
You’ll wind up like the wreck you hide between that mask you use_

Aziraphale sips again at the cocoa, willing his eyes to focus on the page in front of him. Why, he’s read it enough. It should be easy. They are such wonderful words. He wonders if Crowley has ever read them. He knows Crowley makes a big show out of not reading, but I mean, it is awfully spooky, isn’t it? He really ought to check. He’ll just get up and ring Crowley right now and make sure the demon’s read Frankenstein and…

“He’s asleep,” Aziraphale reminds himself, keeping his voice nice and cheery. “You silly thing.”

Aziraphale wiggles back into his seat, repositioning himself just enough. Just right. 

(The right spot on the right chair, the right music, the right book, the right hot drink… Make the right choice and it will all go away.

Right?)

He sips at the cocoa again, cricks his neck from side to side, makes a purposefully contented sound to no one. The words on the page continue to evade him, dancing to and fro just enough to avoid comprehension.

“ _Letter One,_ ” Aziraphale reads out loud. “ _To Mrs. Saville, England. You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings._ ”

The last few words do not reach his ears. He is thinking again. (Always.) Not that there’s anything particularly wrong with the act of Thinking, mind. But when Aziraphale thinks, he thinks of everything. He thinks, of course, of Crowley, sleeping somewhere not so far away, suredly buried beneath black, silky sheets, his red hair an impossible tangle against a soft pillow. Aziraphale thinks of combing it free again with his fingers and then he thinks whether or not Crowley would even like that sort of thing. He thinks about every possible outcome which might result from asking whether or not Crowley would like such a thing. Some scenarios end in scorn, in laughter, in kisses sweet, sometimes in a combination of two or more.

He thinks of Heaven, too, and he burns with shame. He does not mean to. They have- well, he has- well, I suppose you might say…

Well, it’s over, isn’t it? That’s all that matters. 

It’s over, so it shouldn’t hurt anymore.

“ _I arrived here yesterday,_ ” Aziraphale begins to read again, voice climber higher in volume and in pitch. He does not recognize the words. His mind is skipping ahead to a future line of Shelley’s:

“ _Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous._ ”

When did he cease to be virtuous? Was he ever in the first place?

Aziraphale sips at the cocoa, pretending not to notice its ever-full contents sloshing out the side of the mug as a result of his slightly trembling fingers.

_And did you think this fool could never win?  
Well, look at me, I’m a-coming back again_

Aziraphale doesn’t realize at first that he’s crying at all. It’s just a thing that’s been happening lately. He is surrounded by every softness imaginable and he is safe, but also something like empty and the tears come from somewhere deep down in his guts, spilling out over his face and dripping down onto the quivering pages in his lap. 

He has not discovered a softness yet that can soothe this burn at the very core of him. The low crackle of self-loathing and fear that threatens to swallow him even when he is prepared for it, even when he does everything right. Even when he fixes the hot cocoa and reads the good book. 

He suspects there might be healing powers within long, hellfire fingers and scorch-red hair and a lopsided smile. But he is afraid to ask. Afraid, for this, that he has waited too long to ask. 

(Here’s the thing: All car cassettes turn into Queen overnight, yes, but did you know that all classical records spun on lonely, anxious rainy nights eventually turn into Elton John albums?)

Aziraphale’s ears twitch at the sudden presence of lyrics singing at him from across the shop:

_I got a taste of love in a simple way  
And if you need to know while I’m still standing  
You just fade away_

“We can’t give up now,” he sniffles to himself. How long has it been since he last said those words? Since he last felt certain of himself, of anything?

He sets _Frankenstein_ carefully on an end table before crossing the room to his old telephone. He dials the only number he knows and his heart forgets to pretend to beat while he listens to the ring.

“Angel?” is the most beautiful, groggy word he’s ever heard uttered.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says with delight.

“What time is it?” grumbles the demon. “What day is it? Fuck, what month is it?”

“It’s July, my dear,” Aziraphale says, more softly than he’d like. 

Crowley was supposed to be up two weeks ago.

It’s fine, really. Things happen. No one owes him anything. Least of all Crowley. Really. It’s fine.

Crowley lets out a noise somewhere between a whistle and a snarl. “I’m so sorry, Aziraphale, I didn’t-”

“Crowley, have you ever read _Frankenstein?_ ” He finds he cannot bear the notion of Crowley apologizing to him over anything. 

“ _Frankenstein,_ angel?”

“Yes, my dear. _Frankenstein._ ”

Aziraphale nearly laughs out loud to himself as he imagines what Crowley’s face must be doing presently. Asleep for nearly three months and this is the subject of their first conversation. Aziraphale thinks he can practically hear Crowley’s lovely, amber eyes blinking in surprise.

“Everything all right, Aziraphale?” asks the clever, considerate demon.

“Absolutely wonderful,” Aziraphale lies, bringing a hand up to wipe the tears away from his face. He speaks to Crowley with his mouth continually opening, not willing to let his sniffs betray him. 

There is a long pause.

“ _Life,_ ” Crowley drawls. “ _Although-_ ”

Aziraphale’s heart will overflow, it will.

“ _-it may only be an accumulation of anguish,_ ” Crowley continues, his voice a remarkable and steady thing.

“ _Is dear to me,_ ” Aziraphale finishes the quote for him. “ _And I will defend it._ ”

“Already did that, didn't we, angel?”

“Crowley, I miss you terribly,” Aziraphale confesses. Because this life, every last immortal day of it, _is_ dear to him and he thinks he might be ready to stop pretending he doesn’t know what precisely makes it so dear.

Or, rather, who precisely makes it so dear.

“I miss you too, Aziraphale.”

“Come over, then?”

“Always.”

Aziraphale hangs up the phone and lets a relieved sob crash out of him. He retreats back to his soft chair and sinks into it, hugging himself around the middle, willing his insides to hold themselves together long enough for Crowley to arrive.

It is not a perfectly lovely evening. 

(It never matters. Some evenings are hard, no matter how many books or mugs of cocoa you have.)

It is not a perfectly lovely evening.

But it still can be. 

Aziraphale cries and holds himself and vows to tell his dearest friend something like the truth. 

_Don’t you know I’m still standing better than I ever did?  
Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid  
And I’m still standing after all this time  
Picking up the pieces of my life without you on my mind_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Sometimes you've just gotta hardcore project onto your favorite characters, am I right?


End file.
